


Abandoned

by ThatOneWriter15



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-28 02:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20418710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatOneWriter15/pseuds/ThatOneWriter15
Summary: Despite (or maybebecause of) Dean losing so many people in his life, the thought of losingheris absolutely unbearable.





	Abandoned

Her name tears from Dean’s burning lungs with the potency of a storm siren. 

He darts from his bed, nearly slipping on the blankets that have long since been kicked away and are now a plush puddle on the cold floor. 

He may be upright, but he is not completely conscious--or at least not fully _ aware_. However, even in his haze of sleep and terror, he has a mission.

_ Find her. _

His bare feet slap along the stone of the corridor as he dashes to her bedroom.

He flings the door open with such force, it slams into the wall with an echoing bang. 

Not in bed.

Not at her desk.

Not _ there_.

Sprinting, he bounds into the map room.

Empty.

The library.

Desolate.

“Shit,” he half-whimpers, panic and bile rising in his throat. Laying a hand on top of his head, he attempts to catch his breath and focus.

He ventures onward.

Bathrooms.

Unoccupied.

Shower room.

Silent.

He halts as soon as he enters the kitchen. A couple of baking sheets rest on the stove. Frying pans and spatulas decorate the island, and an apron dangles over its side. 

_ She was here_.

He checks for a note. 

Nothing.

Did his phone go off while he was asleep?

No, he would’ve heard it. His ringtone is screaming-loud.

He leans against the refrigerator as his knees threaten to give out.

_ What happened? _

She never begins a task she doesn’t intend to finish immediately. She’s too determined, too organized. He pokes fun at her for it. He recalls the way she’d playfully smack his shoulder to get him to shut up about it. At the memory, a smile nearly forms on his dry lips, but the present--_ reality _\--comes bolting back. 

_ She’s _ ** _gone_**_. _

Suddenly, that’s the only possible explanation.

As a gesture of kindness--or maybe of apology--she prepped the kitchen for breakfast so he and Sam would feel compelled to eat despite mourning her absence. Her black-and-white checkered apron meant as a signature, a farewell.

If Dean’s honest with himself, he expected this long ago. Her voluntarily putting up with him, Sam, and Cass all these years is something he could never wrap his mind around.

A chill scampers up his neck along with the details of his early-morning nightmare.

The four of them were in the basement of an abandoned house, searching for some former secretary’s well-hidden body so that they could torch the bones. But it turned out a demon beat them to the punch.

Wearing the decomposing corpse, it grabbed her by the throat and paralyzed him, his brother, and the angel. As Dean strained against an invisible force, he had no choice but to _ watch_. 

He saw her pupils dilate. 

He saw her skin morph into a sickly white before settling on a horrific blue.

He saw the tendons of her neck straining below someone--some_thing _\--else’s fingers. 

He saw her arms transition from pushing and clawing at the demon to falling lifelessly at her sides…

In a flash, Dean’s bent over the sink, vomiting up his helplessness.

Once his gut is as empty as his heart, the disappointment seeps in.

After seeing _ that_, he had to see _ her_. He needed proof that it was all in his head. That she was safe. That she could laugh. That she could stir up that confusing-but-comforting feeling in his chest.

But mostly, he needed her touch. For her to tell him all was okay. That it was simply a dream. That she was _ right there_.

And now, he’s positive he’s permanently without all of it. 

He’s without _ her_. 

Unsure of where he could possibly go from here, he runs the faucet to rinse away his sick.

“You’re up early.”

He whirls around so urgently, a dirty mug is knocked off the sink’s porcelain ledge, and it shatters by his toes.

Fear spreads through her body with the next pump of her heart. From the entranceway, she rushes to the island, sets down a brown-paper shopping bag, and approaches him.

He swiftly crushes her in an earth-shattering hug. 

Glass crunches as she plants her boots, trying to keep her balance. She stifles the urge to pressure him for details. First, she must calm him.

Underneath his clutch, her arms are trapped. The best she can manage is flicking her wrists to stroke her hands along his hips. After a few rounds, his Henley bunches up, exposing a couple of inches of his stomach. Her fingers mingle with fabric and skin alike. 

His grip on her has not relented for a single second, but, finally, he speaks.

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” she soothes. “And I’m okay. I just headed to the store.”

“What?” He pulls back, but rests his hands on her shoulders, not wanting her out of his reach.

“Remember?” Now having wiggle room, she encircles his waist. 

Oblivious to her question, he moves his grasp to above her elbows, ensuring she won’t let go. 

“Tuesdays are my day to make breakfast,” she refreshes his memory. He blinks at her. “I realized we were out of bacon--which is clearly unacceptable--so, I went to get some. I told Sam as he was leaving for his jog. He’s not home yet?”

“No,” Dean croaks, his esophagus raw from emotion and exertion.

And then, it dawns on her. He thought she left. As in, _ left _left. She presses flush against him in an embrace that gives his from earlier a run for its money. 

Her voice thick with remorse, she murmurs, “Dean…” His hold on her grows tighter. “I’m so sorry. I thought either Sam or I would be back before you got up. I should’ve left a note. I could’ve taken ten seconds to write a goddamn note. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

Her ability to sense the cause of his anguish without him offering any explanation sends relief flooding through him. 

_How does she always manage to_ **_know_**? 

In that moment, he’s reminded how he can’t bear to be without her, how she has become his lifeforce. His free-flowing, silent tears rain down into her hair. 

“I thought I lost you,” he admits in a strained whisper.

She practically whimpers. The enormous, earnest eyes that greet her shred her very soul. She smoothes her palms along the contours of his cheeks before pulling his forehead to hers.

Their breathing blends. Their heartbeats harmonize. The sync of their bodies playing a melody meant only for the two of them.

“Never, Dean. _ Never_.” 


End file.
